Thursday, August 17, 2017

My early professional life was short on patients but
long on learning experiences.

Over dinner I asked an anesthesiologist friend of
the family what anesthetic was preferred in Italy for childbirth. “Il grido,” he replied, “The scream.” As
though it were an explanation he continued, “Remember that the book of Genesis
says women shall bring forth children in pain.” Even today, most public
obstetrical wards don’t offer either epidurals or painkillers.

I learned from patients’ horror stories that Italian
surgeons didn’t use local anesthesia when they sewed up lacerations, or
prescribe strong analgesics after surgery; cancer patients got morphine only
when death was days away. Patient activist movements have improved things a bit
by now, and since the turn of the millennium I can even prescribe the
equivalent of Percocet. But those ER docs are still doing their stitching
without lidocaine.

I learned from personal experience that a physician
who goes to a drug store to buy morphine in Italy, to keep in the office for
emergencies, is seen as a drug addict. The first time I filled in a triplicate
prescription for 4 vials and handed it to a pharmacist along with my medical
license he looked at me crosswise and said they were out of it. So was a
second, a third, and a fourth. Being treated like a criminal makes you feel
like one, and for years whenever it came time to replace my expired vials I
would put on my best clothes, as I would to go shopping on Via Borgognona, and
even so my heart would pound. I can only imagine how hard it must be for cancer
patients who need to buy morphine for their own use.

Shortly after I moved to Rome Giovanni Agnelli,
C.E.O. of Fiat, nicknamed “Rake of the Riviera,” fell and broke his hip. His
personal physician, according to the front-page story in La Repubblica, was treating him at home with the leg under
traction. I was floored – from what I knew bed rest with traction had been
ditched years earlier in favor of immediate surgery, which had patients up and
around in days with fewer complications. What I found astonishing was not that
an Italian doctor might be behind the times, by now no news to me, but that the
richest man in Italy would be under the care of an ignoramus. Lesson: loyalty
trumps competence. P.S. A week later buried on page 17 was a one-line report
that Agnelli had been flown to New York for surgery.

About Me

I moved to Rome in 1978 after finishing my training in New York, and have been practicing primary care internal medicine there ever since, treating a clientele that’s featured Roman auto mechanics and British ambassadors, Indonesian art restorers and Filipina maids, Russian poets and Ethiopian priests. When not seeing patients, doing research in psychosomatic medicine, or being the Artist's Wife to my composer husband, I've written a book about my medical adventures, Dottoressa: An American Doctor In Rome, to be published by Paul Dry Books in May 2019.